


Not today, Satan (or really, Void Lords)

by flyingllamas



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-05-20 15:23:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14897099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flyingllamas/pseuds/flyingllamas
Summary: After a void rift nearly opens over the Sunwell, Lor'themar is reminded of how mortal Rommath really is even if he is one of the most powerful mages in existence.





	Not today, Satan (or really, Void Lords)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [drowsyfantasy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drowsyfantasy/gifts).



> A soft but spicy thing for Drowsy, since they're so wonderful and put up with me essentially stream-of-conscious-ing my Nightborne unlock event. I noticed that Lor'themar seems to be helping Rommath to the exit after he, Thalyssra, and Alleria seal the rift. It's closer than they were the entire event, and just something that was odd. Afterwards, only Halduron was around in the main room of the Spire, so this was inspired by that.

It’s telling, by the way Rommath sways a little on his feet, by the way he tolerates Lor’themar stepping just a little too close to grab his elbow, that he is about to collapse. 

 

Lor’themar has seen this kind of mana burnout in the other man before. When the then-Archmage worked a day through, dawn to dawn, to see children first put on ships and then their parents teleported to Quel’Danas...and then to have news reach him that their blood would never wash from his hands, the man had little energy left to grieve, so intense was his exhaustion. It happened again years later when he rescued Aethas Sunreaver and a few of his compatriots from the Purge of Dalaran. Rommath was little better off that time: his efforts at least yielded fruit, elven lives saved instead of destroyed, but still he seemed to sleep for days on end, his absence (and silence, for his sharp tongue was ever present at any joining of their triumvirate) felt keenly among himself and Halduron. 

 

Despite his own rather pitiful magic usage, Lor’themar has never felt himself felt the effects of mana burnout, but he’s told (by many a complaining mage in the Magisterium) that it’s an awful fate to suffer through. The exhaustion is bone deep and worse, the mage is left defenseless, unable to recuperate mana until mana-scorched membranes in their bodies have fully healed. It’s why he is quick to step forward so suddenly, to catch Rommath’s elbow with a guiding and whisper to him, “Rest, friend,” though the Sunwell laps at their feet: it will do his Grand Magister no good in his current state.

 

Perhaps it is the fact that Silgryn and Valtrois support their First Arcanist so, nearly carrying her by her own elbows, that Rommath allows such boldness in public. Either way, Lor’themar is glad for his peace as short-lived as it is. Rommath will surely eviscerate him with his tongue later for allowing such a thing to happen, especially when warned against it. Neither magus looks particularly improved by the time they reach the Orb of Teleportation, but Lor’themar would have been surprised had they been. Despite their caliber of power (and Alleria’s help, damn her for nearly taking away their legacy once more), a Nether Prince ripping its way into their world would have surely exhausted legions of lesser mages, let alone some of the most powerful in the world.

 

He releases Rommath’s elbow to let him lean slightly on his staff while he sees off Thalyssra and her retinue. Rommath only inclines head in thanks and glares at Liadrin when she hovers a little too close for his liking. Her holy power will do nothing other than exacerbate his scorched membranes and she is well aware of that fact, but that does not stop her from worrying over him like a mother hen. The send off of the Shal’dorei and their champion is lackluster, but Lor’themar knows that no offense will be had by either side on this day. There is much weighing on all of their minds in the wake of Alleria’s summoning of the Void, accidental or not.

 

Liadrin and the champion immediately excuse themselves upon their return to Sunfury Spire. Sylvanas awaits their return at the newly constructed embassy and infuriating their Warchief is not a fate he would wish upon anyone. Death has done no favors for her white-hot temper and Lor’themar was more than well acquainted with it serving as her Ranger Lord in life. They are left in the quiet of the Spire, not quite alone with the guards surrounding them and Halduron lounging in the back of the room, pretending as if he weren’t dozing. Here, at least, Rommath will not let Lor’themar touch him and he does not try to. Too many prying eyes here, too many wagging tongues that have little better to do than destroy a point of happiness in the lives of two men who have given nearly every part of themselves for the reconstruction of their kingdom.  

 

Still, Lor’themar does not broker argument from Rommath when he jerks his head towards the ramp leading to the portals of their personal quarters. Rommath is either too tired or too unwilling to argue in public and reluctantly follows him, leaning heavily on his staff as he has not in years. Halduron gives them a questioning look, now fully awake after realizing their presence, but Lor’themar shakes his head curtly. Not now, he mouths. Halduron nods in understanding and stands to order their guards. He will know soon enough what transpired at the Sunwell and it will not require Rommath humiliating himself by falling in public, should he lose the strength to stand.

 

His Grand Magister waits for him at the portal and says not a word until they are up in the floor of the Spire dedicated to Rommath. It is not a moment after when Rommath spits out, “You fool. You absolute, utter fool.”

 

“I know,” Lor’themar assures him, and he does. He should have never allowed sentiment to overrule his judgement, to let Alleria near such a font of holy power when she herself bathed in the polar energies of the Void. 

 

Without missing a beat, Lor’themar stoops quickly to pull Rommath to him as the mage’s knees finally give out. He loops an arm under his knees and hauls him up against his chest. Despite this, Rommath’s tongue lashing continues. “I told you it was a poor idea, I even reminded you before we stepped through the portal, but you just had to let emotions rule you once more. What would have happened if that Nether Prince was able to push through?”

 

“The world would have lost an extremely powerful Grand Magister,” he tells Rommath. Lor’themar shoulders open the door to Rommath’s bedchamber once the wards dispel at their master’s presence. “I would have lost the love of my life.”

 

“Fool,” Rommath snaps. There’s a fondness to it, though, and when he rests his forehead for but a moment in the crook of Lor’themar’s neck, he cannot help but gently squeezing him against him. Duty would have prevented him from finding a quick death after the incursion of the void, but lo, his heart would die the day Rommath did.

 

Lor’themar settles Rommath on the edge of his bed gently, murmuring the cantrip he’d learned so long ago for banishing the infernal robes the mage was so fond of wearing. Rommath had laughed and laughed and laughed, brightly like he’d never heard before, when he’d become frustrated after failing to find any clasp or tie to them the first time they had fallen into bed together. Now, it is but routine. It leaves Rommath bare save for the light trousers he always wears underneath and Lor’themar is quick to undo the ties of his armor to join him on the bed. 

 

“Turn over, if you can,” he requests and as ever, Rommath is loathe to obey...but Lor’themar digging his fingers deep into the exhausted, knotted muscles of his collarbone and shoulders is quick to change his mind. 

 

Rommath presents him with his back soon after and Lor’themar sets to work easing the tension in his partner’s body. It’s not an uncommon thing for him to do this for Rommath, particularly on his return visits home from the Broken Isles or whatever matter holds his attention  _ this _ week, but Lor’themar never quite gets used to seeing Rommath like this. Every time, he pulls his knees up to his chest and rests his arms and head on them, so deceptively submissive and quiet, as Lor’themar pulls the tension from his body. Lor’themar would give so much to know what goes through his head in these quiet moments, where Rommath looks so far away in his gaze, but so far the other man has kept his secrets to himself. Lor’themar will let him for his gaze, though distant, is fond and happy and he would keep Rommath that way for an eternity, if he could.

 

When he’s finished, Rommath appears to be dozing on his folded arms and his ponytail has slipped over his shoulder. It’s enough to make Lor’themar chuckle softly before he shakes his shoulder lightly. 

 

“Not yet, love,” he says quietly and Rommath groans, grumbling something under his breath about meddling rangers. When Lor’themar pushes him back on the bed and slides his hands down his legs and massages his feet and then his calves and then ghost his touch just above his knees to his thighs, Rommath is fully awake.

 

Lor’themar pauses just long enough to gauge Rommath’s alertness and long enough for Rommath to snap at him, “If you’re going to do something, do it!”

 

“You’re impatient,” Lor’themar says. He slips his hands under Rommath’s trousers to lightly squeeze his ass before shimmying them and his small clothes down and off him. Rommath kicks them away, so that they fall on the floor. 

 

“And you’re a slow, idiotic oaf, tell me something I don’t know,” snarls Rommath in return. His venom turns into an uncharacteristic laugh when Lor’themar’s broad hands smooth up his calves once more and oh-so gently brush behind his knees, tickling him. It prompts Rommath to try to plant a foot in his face with a huff, though Lor’themar is able to dodge it with a chuckle. “Don’t tease me, you ass.”

 

“I think I’ll do what I want,” Lor’themar tells him. He runs his blunt nails lightly over the skin of Rommath’s inner thighs, making the other man shiver.

 

“I could always find someone else, you know,” Rommath grumbles, but spreads his legs almost shyly so Lor’themar can kiss and suck marks in between the runic tattoos barring the skin. 

 

“Be my guest,” Lor’themar invites and pulls back, just short of the dark thatch of curls between Rommath’s legs. It makes the mage whine so he starts again, this time leaving teasing just above the curls on his stomach and in the strong V of his hips. 

 

“I would, but it would be too inconvenient,” the mage gasps out. “I would…” He suppresses a moan when Lor’themar dips almost too low, Rommath’s hardening cock brushing against his neck and chin, “have to train them again and that would be annoying. Light, would you just suck my cock already? You know I hate it when you tease me like this!”

 

“Hmm, I don’t think so,” Lor’themar tells him, his voice starting to fray into huskiness, and pushes himself up to kiss Rommath. 

 

He’s sure to let his body drag against Rommath, to grind down ever slightly on his cock. The whine from Rommath is cut off when he licks his way past Rommath’s lips and rhythmically pushes in, a promise of what could come later. He pulls back each time that knows Rommath’s lungs start to burn for air and each time he lets him breath just a little bit of air in, he seals his lips over the mage’s once more with a tug to the gold and ruby bars in his nipples. 

 

When at last Rommath is shaking, whining with each breath that Lor’themar lets him have, Lor’themar lets him settle a little bit so he’ll enjoy what’s to come. He traces the red runic tattoos decorating Rommath’s arms and chest, touch light and reverent, and thinks of what he almost lost again on this day. 

 

This isn't about just making Rommath come apart under his hands, it's about making him enjoy himself, about making him realize how much Lor’themar adores him. It’s about Lor'themar being so afraid that he'd lose Rommath to something, someday that neither of them will see coming despite Rommath’s nagging warnings, that he'd never be able to touch him again, to reach over in the middle of the night and stroke the backs of his knuckles over softly glowing runic tattoos and push back the hair from Rommath's sleeping face (and in the morning, tease him that makes the most wonderful faces when he sleep and Rommath will never, ever admit that), or listen to Rommath reduce some poor sap to tears by force of his words alone (sometimes nearly Lor'themar himself).

 

During his adoration, Rommath has calmed down enough from nearly incoherent whines to beg, “Please, please, damn you Lor’themar, please, before I pin you down and take you into me and ride you raw,” and Lor’themar can only (and always) give him what he wants. Lor'themar kisses his way down his stomach and the tip of his flushed, hard cock. He licks down it, teases the veins and sucks lightly on one side, before finally drawing back and taking all of him in his mouth and throat in one go. Rommath cries out, loud and high, and stuffs two curled knuckles into his mouth to keep himself quiet. 

 

Lor'themar pulls back and warns, "Don't you dare. Don't you dare muffle your cries. I want to hear you, and know that you're still alive and still mine."

 

Reluctantly, Rommath lets his hands fall down and clenches the sheets with his hands. Lor’themar knows that he’s still going to quiet himself, but today he has no patience for Rommath’s pride. Lor'themar sinks back down onto his cock, his hands massaging the base of it and his balls, and a cry rips free from Rommath’s throat, out again and again, his toes curling and back arching off the sheets. 

 

“You bastard,” Rommath says and his voice is rough from pleasure. “Do you mean to let the whole Spire hear us?”

 

In fact, Lor’themar does, but he’s too busy worshipping Rommath with his mouth to let him know. Rommath’s head tilts back, black hair splaying out like ink against the pillow behind him, and his voice breaks on the moan that punches out of his lungs when his cock hits the back of Lor’themar’s throat. Lor’themar looks up at him, admiring the tattoos barely flaring to life from Rommath’s lack of control, and swallows around the cock in his mouth. 

 

One of Rommath’s hands finds its way into Lor’themar’s top knot and holds his head in place as his hips begin to move. He’s too lost in his own pleasure at this point, Lor’themar realizes, but it’s exactly what he wants. He wants to remember this, remember Rommath coming undone by his own hands and mouth, wants to remember the absolute beauty of the man on the bed before him. Rommath’s moans pitch back into near breathless whines once more, too exhausted to hold back the inevitable orgasm about to slam into him, so Lor’themar’s hand around the base of his cock smooths down the curls between his legs and between his ass cheeks, and two fingers begin to toy with his rim and shallowly thrusting into him. 

 

It's too much for Rommath to handle and with a silent cry, his back arches off the sheets again, almost painfully this time, and Lor’themar lets himself be pulled forward until his nose is buried in the dark curls above Rommath’s cock while his partner empties himself down Lor’themar’s throat. Lor'themar swallows and pulls back to wipe his mouth on Rommath's thigh, before crawling up to kiss him once more.

 

"Do you have to kiss me right after you sucked my cock?" Rommath complains, his voice hoarse. Lor'themar can only laugh because he knows Rommath is complaining for the sake of complaining at this point. Really, the mage beneath him looks rather like a cat in a wonderfully warm patch of sunlight: content, sated, and sleepy. 

 

Still, Rommath tries to reach for his shirt, to unbutton it, but Lor’themar gently plucks his hands off. Rommath, though content, is exhausted at this point. It matters not that Lor’themar is still hard inside his own trousers. It can wait until the morrow, when they’ve both had some rest and put the events of the day behind them. Lor’themar gathers him up in his arm, pressing kisses to his forehead and temples and  arranges them so they're both under the sheets. Rommath seems pleased with himself that he’s at least able to tug what remains of the topknot free, letting cornsilk hair down onto his shoulders, but his own tie in his hair is quickly lost to the pillows. 

 

The fight thoroughly bled and fucked out of him, it’s not long before Rommath drifts off to sleep. Lor’themar stays awake only long enough to keep vigil over the man next to him. He can’t help but tell him, though it’s unlikely Rommath hears it as lost as he is to his dreams, "I love you...I love you so much..." again and again and again.

 

Today, he almost lost his Grand Magister, his fellow leader, and love. But if the universe has learned anything that day, it is that it will take more than literal heaven and hell (or void) to keep him from Rommath.


End file.
